


Nothing To Do In This Heat

by yourealoverimarunner



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: F/M, hanging out doing the thing y'know, westallen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-21
Updated: 2015-05-21
Packaged: 2018-03-31 12:46:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3978604
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourealoverimarunner/pseuds/yourealoverimarunner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"In a dark room, lit only by the orange glow of streetlights outside, two figures touch.<br/>He is Barry.<br/>She is Iris.<br/>Here, there is only she and him.<br/>He is hers, she is his, and together they deny each other nothing."</p><p> </p><p>[a Westallen one-shot.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing To Do In This Heat

**Author's Note:**

> I was inspired by a cinemagraph by Rebecca Mock entitled, "Nothing To Do In This Heat" :  
>   
> and I just had to write about it featuring my favorite pair. A very special shout out to the-omniscient-narrator & journalistiriswest for being amazing betas. You guys are beyond fantastic.

In a dark room, lit only by the orange glow of streetlights outside, a busted air conditioner sits on the floor underneath a row of three open windows. Above, a ceiling fan spins on its highest setting, quietly attempting to toss out cool air. A box fan sits propped up in a wooden chair across from the dresser. It rattles softly with the task of combatting the thick July heat currently seeping in.

The arms of a clock on the wall change position. It silently states that it’s late, 1:03am to be exact, in Central City.

On the king-sized bed tucked quaintly into the corner, two figures touch. A miss, petite and brown, sits in the lap of a gentleman, her shorter legs straddling his long pale ones. They kiss, never rushing or pushing, only gentle and seeking.

He is Barry.

She is Iris.

In these moments, there is no scarlet speedster, no detective’s daughter. There are no metahumans, superheroes or people who live to tell the story daily.

Here, there is only she and him.

He is hers, she is his, and together they deny each other nothing.

A strong hand travels around her waist, sliding to a stop just at the base of her spine. He slips his hand underneath her tank, uses long, rough fingers to trail up each individual notch. It tickles. A breathy laugh tumbles from her lips, and she repays him with a deliberate shift over his clothed, thickening length. He feels her smile against his lips, and he’s kissing her again- once, twice, three times. Eyes closed, he finds his way across her skin by scent, follows a path of still lingering perfume with his nose- vanilla,  sandalwood, lotus- down her throat, across her collarbone, to the rounded curve of her shoulder.

“Take this off,” he murmurs, tugs at her top before he’s reversing his path back up the side of her neck. She pulls away briefly to lift her shirt over her head, and then she’s back in again tasting his lips.

Nights like these don’t come often, and knowing this, Barry cherishes the slow ease in which they come together. With such a history between them, filled with big love and close friendship but tinged at the edges with time never to return, who is he to refuse her? Who is he to turn a cheek to this intimacy, this quiet slice of peace? Even filled to the brim with lightning powers and superhuman speed, he knows that kind of power is not within him, and God, does he hope it never is.

He knows she prefers to not dwell on the past, is not fond of those whiplash quick slips back into old memories steeped with the sound of beeping monitors and empty medical jargon. So, he follows her lead and lives in the now because he knows- _everyone knows_ \- he goes wherever she goes. Here with her, time moves honey drip slow, stretches out through the warmth of the night, and that’s more than fine with him.

She threads her digits into his hair and deepens the lazy kisses they trade. He can’t help the moan that slips from his lips. They meet with a mutual ferocity, and he uses the slight increase in momentum and fervor to flip them as gracefully as the fire within him allows. Her legs find familiar purchase around his waist and she pulls him in closer to her; a signal not to move faster but more so a physical request to immerse in something deeper. He obliges her, runs his tongue across the seam of her lips in a silent desire for entrance, and she wastes no time granting him the access he seeks. She’s quick to meet him, licking hotly into his mouth with a hand cupped around his jaw, which sends a flicker of heat darting up his spine. She glides a foot up the back of his calf, once and again. Dirty play. He pulls away and huffs a laugh into the crook of her neck.

“Hey, if you don’t stop with the foot thing, I’m going to be out of commission early, if you know what I mean,” he says.

She laughs golden and low, runs the pads of her fingers across his scalp from hairline to hairline.

“Hmm,” she feigns, repeating the motion, “what foot thing?”

He shifts between her legs, grinds down smooth and precise. Her breath catches.

“Iris...” he warns.

“Barry,” she returns, cheeky and unyielding.

He looks up at her then, watches an easy smile pour across her face, and he can’t help but bask in the contentment she radiates. A moment passes between them before he’s crawling off of her body and standing at the foot of the bed, the length of his form clad in nothing but dark briefs. She props herself up on her elbows, eyes his entire physique from head to toe, and darts a pink tongue out to lick at her lips in anticipation. He smirks then, drifts a finger up the inside of her right ankle and draws feather-light spirals up and down her calf, which triggers a wave of goosebumps across her body. She twists in bed a bit, caught off guard by the sensation of his hands, but then she’s meeting him with dark eyes and gladly taking the dare he’s offered up. She lets out an exaggerated breath, lifts her arms above her head to stretch out her entire body like a lithe cat, her breasts moving with the soft force of her breathing.

He knows what he’s doing to her just like she knows what she’s doing to him.

Before she knows it, he’s tugging her down the bed by both ankles and a gasp is floating from her mouth. He leans down to kiss her, filthy and wet, all the while slipping his fingers underneath the elastic of her shorts and pulling them down past her thighs, knees, calves, feet.

Across town, a train travels into the night.

Down below, a car passes, speeds up, fades away.

Upstairs, a record plays staticky sweet on a turntable.

Here in this room, Barry Allen is acutely aware that this is where his science ends- flush of endorphins; blood rushing, pumping just under skin; saltwater sweat dripping- and where the magic of one Miss Iris West begins. How it feels to be touched by her, embraced by her, tangled up in her- that’s more than just equations and chemistry. It’s unexplainable yet undeniable.

She props herself back up on her elbows, looks to see him staring down at her. “Your turn, Mr. Allen,” she breathes, nudging him with a toe. He smiles then, runs his thumbs under his waistband and drops his briefs to the ground.

 

In a dark room, lit only by the orange glow of streetlights outside, two figures touch.

He is Barry.

She is Iris.

Here, there is only she and him.

He is hers, she is his, and together they deny each other nothing.

  


 

**Author's Note:**

> I kind of made a playlist to go along with reading this, if you want to take a listen. :)  
> https://8tracks.com/cheeseamberger/this-love-is-a-sure-thing


End file.
